“I will call you to me when I desire you next. But remember my condition. You will not touch yourself when you are alone. I want you hard and aching for me, Mr. Saintsbury.”
“Alfred,” I say reflexively. For reasons I can’t understand, I hate my surname, myfather’sname, in her mouth.
“Good afternoon, Alfred,” Annabelle says, her gaze out the window already.
I am not sure if I offended her, disappointed her, or she merely wants me gone.
I have no choice but to tender her a stiff nod and leave the carriage.
For the rest of the week, I try not to think of her. Not her shining golden hair, not her full lips, nor the way her bosom pushes up against the bodice of her gown when she says something particularly cutting.
After all, serious parish matters require my undivided attention. And which make my persistent thoughts of her, unable to be blocked or diminished in any way, and my inconvenient cockstands that continue unabated, very frustrating.
I must smooth over the carriage incident with my parishioners. The most reasonable villagers will understand that attacking a woman in her carriage, especially when she is the biggest employer in the parish, is neither Christian nor practical. But I also understand that some others will look askance at their vicar defending such a notorious woman in a loud and public fashion.
But I did not grow up a vicar’s son for nothing. My father long drilled into me that though we work for the Lord, the people we serve are creatures of flesh and blood. Approaching themen directly would be unproductive. They cannot be convinced by logic or arguments about decency.
No, instead I will take another route altogether.
I will appeal to their wives.
I have my housekeeper make a vast quantity of lemonade and cake. And then I let it be known in the village that after the service on Sunday I will be having a party for the children in the churchyard. After preaching a sermon about the virtues of forgiveness and not presuming to judge where only God can, I stand with the women in the churchyard as the children spin hoops and gorge themselves on cake.
I always enjoy having a reason to throw a party for the children in the parish.
As I hope for marriage, I also hope for fatherhood.
I want children very badly.
I am jealous of men of my age who get to be husbands and fathers. I am sure it is the life I am meant for.
To have children of my own, to watch them grow—I want it more than almost anything.
I shake off these useless longings.
I must attend to the matter at hand.
“We heard you got into quite the scrape the other day, Mr. Saintsbury,” Mrs. Carpenter says. I did not see her in the crowd around Annabelle’s carriage and her voice is not unkind—but it is clear that she expects an explanation. Mr. Carpenter is the village wheelwright. Thus, while the Carpenters are as firmly outside of respectable society as Mr. Liddell, theyarepart of an honest, upright village leadership composed largely of shop owners and artisans to whom the cottagers and farm workers look up. In short, I need Mrs. Carpenter’s good opinion.
When Mrs. Carpenter speaks, the other women aroundus, all of whom are similarly situated among the village elite, turn their attention to me.
“I suppose I did,” I say, carefully meeting the eye of each woman. “If that is how you term coming to the aid of a lady in distress. I hope I will get in many more then, too, for I would hate to think I would ever neglect a woman in need.”
“That is a handsome sentiment, Mr. Saintsbury,” Mrs. Reson, the butcher’s wife, says. “And an admirable one. But Miss de Lacey is notanylady.”
The women murmur in agreement. “Indeed,” I say. “She employs half of the men in the parish and keeps bread on their tables.”
“Does rank justify any behavior then?” chimes in Mrs. Pender, the wife of the blacksmith. “Is that what the church teaches?”
“Of course not,” I counter, working to keep my tone even. “But it also warns against calumny and rumor. Most of what is said about Miss de Lacey is unconfirmed.”
My gut churns as I say these words. I am not sure, of course, what is truth when it comes to Annabelle de Lacey. And her behavior to me has justified every bit of her notorious reputation. But the only way to lessen the evil of defending her in their eyes is to suggest that they may be mistaken. The fact that I feel unaccountably protective over the woman is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter that my stomach twists every time I imagine Annabelle de Lacey being harmed by a brute like Liddell.
“Calumny and rumors!” Mrs. Carpenter erupts. “You are a kind man, Mr. Saintsbury, and it is a credit to you. But we in Trescott know that what they say about Miss de Lacey is true—at leastsomeof it.”
I bite back an objection. Really, I need to steady myself.
“Yes, she ruined herself with Frank Holster when she was just sixteen,” Mrs. Reson says, looking me in the eye. “Everyone knows it. She was a girl with every blessing of existence, and Frank was only a cottager’s son.”
